


Things I'll Never Say

by etgoddess



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etgoddess/pseuds/etgoddess
Summary: When you’re talking to someone, you don’t see the quotation marks or the parenthesis. But more often than not, therein lies the true meaning of their words…It’s all in what they don’t say.





	Things I'll Never Say

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my formatting errors. I'm super late (years) moving these over from LJ & FF.net.

A cool, collected blonde sat alone, at a table in the middle of the ship’s mess hall.  She restlessly chewed her pen cap as her tired fingers scrawled short hand over the pages of the new nuggets’ evaluation forms.  Her dinner tray had been pushed off to the right—its unappealing puddle of green, congealing algae doing nothing to garner her attention.  She rolled her head from side to side as she wrote, wordlessly working the kinks from her tired muscles.  If one watched her long enough they would see her eyes roll, clearly skeptical of the written words on the crisp pages.  Yet she barely paused, scanning one page, making her mark, moving the report to a new pile before starting another.  She kept on with this for hours, her CAP shift long past.  She daydreamed and debated in her mind but never stopped the scratching of her pen for one single moment—as if the continuing existence of the universe depended on the ink from her vessel to sustain itself; she wrote, a woman possessed.  Her hand cramped halfway through “Crashdown’s” evaluation.  “ _Would to well to_ —“, was as far as she got before the muscles clenching the utensil seized.  Groaning, she dropped it, acquiescing to a moment’s rest.  She flexed her hand, kneaded the tendons, and rolled her head again, wincing when the muscles in her neck protested furiously.  She looked around at the other tables in search of a distraction.  She found one. 

A poised, pretentious brunette stood stock still in the entrance to the mess hall.  She fumbled with the brass band on her left hand, keeping it tucked into her chest behind her right arm.  She stood there, arms crossed, and scoped out her company.  Her face belied no emotion as her eyes flitted from nameless face, to nameless face, to Helo and Athena canoodling in a back corner, to Gaeta standing awkwardly with his mess tray in line with nameless face after more nameless faces to—her.  Briefly she considered turning to flee.  Too late.  Eye contact. 

The two women braced themselves for the encounter as the brunette grudgingly approached the blonde’s table.  _“Just be nice.”_ the brunette coached herself internally.  The blonde simply set her spine rigid and braced for the imminent attack, _“Just don’t kill her,”_ her conscience reminded as she inhaled deeply. 

“Lieutenant Thrace,” the brunette greeted through gritted teeth.  _“Whore.”_ she thought, as she sauntered closer, violating the blonde’s boundaries of personal space and earning her immediate ire. 

“Anastacia.” Kara Thrace returned, a smile stretched tightly across her countenance.  _“Desperate tramp.”_ she thought, her forced smile morphing slowly to a smirk. 

Anastacia Dualla restrained the urge to wince at Kara’s pointed use of her full name.  “How is everything?  Sam is well I hope?” Dee’s words were polite, but her thoughts took a malicious turn.  _“He’s been fantastic in bed lately on any count.”_

“Everything is great,” Kara replied, raising her eyebrows in confirmation, “Been busy with the new nuggets.”  She gazed levelly at Dualla, but her thoughts wandered.  _“And with Lee in the Raptor, and his Viper, and my rack, and his desk…”_

“I’m sure they’ve kept you on your toes,” Dualla commented.  But internally she raged, “ _And on your back with your ankles in the air, you bitch.”_

“Oh, you know, same as always,” said Kara, reclining in her chair, “driving me crazy.”  Her mouth quirked to one side as she mused, _“Yeah, same old Lee, crazy with his tongue.”_

Kara and Dualla stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment, before Kara cleared her throat.  “And how’s married life treating you?  Get him to pick up his socks yet?” 

Dualla unclenched her jaw and shifted her weight.  “Lee is wonderful.” she replied, stiffening, “And you and I both know, my husband doesn’t need any help picking up his socks, Kara.”

Kara quirked an eyebrow, surprised at Dualla’s audacity.  “Why, Dee, are you implying something?” she challenged. 

Dee snapped up to her full height, meager though it was, and stood wringing her hands behind her back.  “Only that as Lee’s _friend_ you know exactly how organized he is.” she spat back, the word ‘friend’ ejected like a vulgarity. 

Kara sat up, lifting her pen to return to her reports.  “Well, you’d be correct then.  I do know _exactly_ how organized he is.”

Dualla’s stomach roiled and she stepped back from Kara’s table.  “Yes.  Well, I’m late for my CIC shift.” she announced abruptly, turning to leave. 

“It was great talking to you, Dee.  We don’t do it nearly enough anymore.” Kara called to her, playing with the pen in her hands. 

“You’re right, Kara, that’s…unfortunate,” Dee acknowledged, “Good luck with the evaluations."

Dee spun round on one foot and marched off.  Kara was left at the table with her reports.  She wrote for a moment, checking off proficiency boxes and scratching comments in the allotted space.  A chair was pulled out next to her and a man sat down.  They didn’t speak.  He pushed and picked at the lumpy, green excuse-for-food on his tray and she continued writing.  There was no sound save for the background murmur of the mess hall, the tinging of his aluminum fork on his aluminum plate, and the scritching of her pen on the hexagonal paper.  Subtly, he shifted his chair closer, millimeter by millimeter, until their knees were touching beneath the table.  To any bystander it was a simple lunchtime meeting.  Starbuck and Apollo, attached at the hip, as usual, sharing mealtime.

The man spoke quietly.  “Were you talking to Dee?” he asked incredulously, “Nicely?”

Kara guffawed spontaneously at the obvious disbelief in his voice but quickly tamped down her amusement in an effort to deflect attention from their rendezvous.

“Would it be so absolutely unbelievable if I was?” she inquired.

It was the man’s turn to chortle.  “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

Brown eyes met blue and the two stared, smirking, for a long moment before dissolving into gentle laughter. 

“She thinks I don’t know she’s sleeping with Sam,” Kara announced. 

The man looked perplexed, “Did she tell you—?”

“—She didn’t have to, Lee.” Kara interrupted, “I mean, come on.  It’s not like she had to _say_ it.”

Lee sat still, staring intently at his fork.  “I’d say I’m sorry, but…do you think—“

“—She knows.” Kara interrupted again.  “I’m pretty sure Dee knows all about…”

“…Us.”  Lee finished for her.  “How can you tell?”

Kara glanced up from her report.  “She knew, that I knew, that you pick up your socks,” she said simply. 

Lee mouth gaped, at a loss.  “Um, I’m sorry.  What?  What do my socks have to do with Dee knowing—” 

“—It’s all in what she doesn’t say, Lee.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/reviews are welcome!


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